Dinner conversation with the sculptor, the animation artist, the drawer, the architect, and the novelist about, for one seizable thing at least, that peculiarly intense rage inspired by language that obstructs the transmission of messages, or fails to carve out a receptacle "unadorned" into which the reader can project herself (that's gawgeous, sez Simon)— as against the dream of flux from elsewhere composing itself after years of useless thinking and junk, as if one had become a medium, like Faulkner, the animation of Bon in color-coded prose swelling from some LA garret against the lineaments of its author's prejudice in the wee hours.

Meanwhile in the old capital we continue to stand under ceilings that beguile us into some plenitudinous capacity to see ourselves in skies.